Dreams along the Rio Grande
by EvitaRose
Summary: This is about a space cattle drive where a yearling calf falls into a spring where the herd is drinking. Then Trellin (John Wayne) twirls his lasso to the calf who catches it in his teeth. Then John Wayne pulls him in. It's about the heroism of a cowboy on the open range.


Mary Russell

Dreams on the Rio Grande

Once there was a cowboy on a Spotted Appaloosa. I saw in a moment it was John Wayne, tall in the saddle. He complains about his pink neckerchief. He says it makes him look like an homosexual, but I say he has got money for his woman, perhaps a million for this picture. I love Grit TV, where all the women wear a Double D cup, and all the men carry bullet belts with their dicks down like their side arms, ready for action. Well, last night I dreampt of John Wayne, the young John Wayne in his pink neckerchief with his handsome face next to mine. We were hiding behind the rocks with our rifles. I'm a Montana Girl, and I can shoot off a rifle. The cattle were chewing their cud, though their ears were pricked to danger. But these weren't beef cattle. These were star cattle, and no one would ever eat them so long as cowboys fight Indians and the good guys never cheat at cards. My favorite cow was Number One. She always had a bull ready to date her, please her, and pull her pants down – her frilly cow panties – and go for a ride. Some cows still go by the number system. Car Fifty Four where are you? If we're missing one of the cows, he's Number Fifty Four. Number two likes her needle point, it is said. She is one of Number One's cronies. She has got eyes in her head, and she reports to Maeve like a spy. "Comin' up there John Updike," she says. Our bulls like to ride with their families. But nobody's comin' on anybody. Look out for Number One!

Hell, I remember a newborn calf named Mr. 42 whiskers or Dwain, as he was called. Number forty two. Now, none of these cows are for slaughter. Your meat would fly away. These were space cattle, and they would climb into the sky as if they were on stairs. But they liked grass. They liked to eat fresh grass and look at my map of migratory cow patterns. I heard tell that they like snow around Christmas, if the grass was still fresh underneath. I spent the summer sleepin' outside in a sleeping bag next to a cook fire, and Trellin could cook, scrambled eggs and bacon. It was before the water had come up. I don't know what happened to my cattle when the water came up, and now that the oxygen is scarce, I don't know whether or not they survived. We still have cattle. Some nights I watch the sun go down, and I worry about Number One Maeve and how she never let go of Dwain, Number Forty two, Mr. Whiskers. We were at the Galaxy Crossing, Where the Two Rivers Meet, and one of our mothers, Number Forty One, Dame Winters lost a calf in the springs. Trellin spotted him and rode his horse into the water. He was so brave. The calf was drinking at the springs and had fallen into the spring on some unequal footing. Trellin threw him a rope, and the yearling cow knew what was good for him. He bit the rope, and Trellin pulled him out. There were stars in the sky that night and there was plenty of oxygen to breathe. Dwain was wet to the skin, but we marched down to one of the planets and ended up on Texas soil. I thundered him up in a towel and gave him back to his mother. I was riding with the truck that day, and Trellin. He was a hero. I love cows. I loved his scrawny backside, and I was worried about our drinkin' water and how he might have sullied it. "Mama! Mama!" he shouted, and I found Dame Winters looking for her calf. I had asked Maeve's spies if she knew anyone was missing a calf, and I had asked the boy just who was his mother. "Dame Winters is my mother," he had said both in oxygen talk and in smell talk. "Maeve, find me Dame Winters. It's milkin' time and this young one is still on the tit." Trellin said, "He's a yearling, and he'll walk with the bulls soon." Soon mother and son were reunited. Nothing had bit him in the spring water. As the old cowboy says, his wiener was on straight. Summer time is mating time, and the bulls are showing their wiener. It was high time he was showing his, but I didn't towel him much so that he would smell right to his mother. Hippy tie yahey, get along little doggies.

I remember nights out under the stars by the camp fire. Notaviska would play the harmonica and sing. Old Gatlin would play the guitar. As for me, I can cowboy yodel real slow. So we would sing

Ne fairs ne fairs

U rock en a boinum

Old man Winter

He is a comin'

But winter in the south is much milder than the Montana winter. Texas doesn't get much snow. Some cowboys say that we lose cattle to the winter snows, but this space herd knows no casualties. Manty the head cowpoke says we are lucky. She has never lost one, except maybe old Shevty, who died of natural causes at a ripe old hundred years. One day he just keeled over and died. The herd opened up a wide circle. Because whatever he had, they didn't want. He laid down on his side, grandchildren and wives from many seasons. He was an old bull, and he whispered, "I go," and he went.

We buried him. We dropped wild flowers on his grave, and Lentil, another old bull, gave a speech about his life. "He lived." He paused. "He died, under the old Texas sky. This range knows the coolness of his footsteps. These women know the warmth of his flesh. These, his grandchildren, know their grandfather." It was an advanced herd, and he had known the mothers and children. He wasn't crazy. Bulls are not just for mating. They're just like other cows, and they mix in. "Season to season, God, you have known this man. Mehe, sacred form of cow – cow to God. You have lead him on the sacred pathways of the planets. Be with him now in his death. May he join the other cows that have gone before him on their sacred way. Happy migrating, old friend. We shall meet again."

That was the summer of 2009, and I still dream of Revki, my horse and Maeve, my lead cow. Some nights Trellin and I shared a bed roll, but we both like Grit. I secretly hope my cows made it to Hollywood without any casualties and that they survived somehow. The lure of the open range and the starry sunset still haunts me. In my dreams I'm still driving the truck and riding Old Revki, but the Texas range still haunts my dreams.


End file.
